
The paperback edition of Marcella’s Italian Kitchen was gifted to me over twenty years ago. It was a thank you from a student who was doing a rotation through the research lab where I was working at the time.
I remember a day when I met her ten year old son. Sick and unable to attend school he accompanied his mom to the hospital. I offered to look after him while she attended a biochemistry lecture. One she couldn’t miss. Unexpectedly, I had an assistant.
For an hour or so we had fun viewing slides under the microscope. While his mom scribbled notes on the chemical processes of life, with a little light and a lot of magnification, he and I looked at cells where it was all taking place.
She returned grateful. I was in my twenties at the time; not yet a wife, nor a mother. She was both and a first year medical student in her early forties now attending a most prestigious school. She had been an artist. Later I learned a close friend’s sickness and death had inspired her to enter a new career late in life.
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The clothesline is empty. So is the blooming clover that fills the yard. Yesterday’s bumblebees have not yet reoccupied their spiky white posts. The stillness of the early hour broken only by our flip flops clicking an unintended chorus. Their perfect rhythm times a whiney creak. The lonely song of the handle of a pail. Swinging back and forth, wrapped around my arm on my elbow like a purse. For a moment it quiets. Paused at the putting hole, pocketing a forgotten golf ball, I look back towards the house. Our steps have left an interesting trail in the cool dew. Grandma calls my name. Ahead of me she’s stopped, waiting for me to catch up.






